Murder Somewhere in This City Read online

  “You did well,” said Martineau. “You’re a quick thinker. So they let you go.”

  “Well, the driver made a half-hearted attempt to make me swerve off the road, but I held my course and he didn’t risk a bump. I watched the car in my mirror when I was past. It went off the way it had been facing. I stopped at the farm down there and dialed nine-nine-nine.”

  “What sort of a car was it?”

  “A Buick, I think. An old Buick. Prewar. It was a sort of dusty black color. The coachwork looked very shabby and neglected. I bet it hadn’t been cleaned for ages.”

  “Did you get the registration number?”

  “Sorry, no. I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  “Did you notice any part of the number, or any of the letters?”

  “No. I never looked at the number. I was more concerned with watching the driver, and the front wheels.”

  “Would you know him again?”

  “I doubt if I would. When I got near, he put his hand across his face. I think they all did.”

  “All? How many men in the car?”

  “I’m pretty sure there were four of them. The car seemed to be full.”

  “What about the man who carried the body?”

  “He was back in the car before I got near enough to have a good look at him. He seemed to be a big, hefty man.”

  “Tall?”

  “I wouldn’t say he was as tall as you, but he struck me as being pretty big and burly.”

  “About what age?”

  “Thirty, forty. Hard to say. He was wearing a dark suit and a soft hat. I couldn’t say just what color.”

  “Do you remember anything else about any of the others?”

  “No. Just eyes; staring eyes over their hands. They’ll all know me again.”

  “Don’t worry about that, either. They’ll be too busy to bother about you,” said Martineau.

  He spoke to Devery. “What did you find out?”

  Devery looked at his watch. “It happened fifty-five minutes ago, at ten to eleven,” he said. “The girl, Cicely Wainwright, was taking cash from Gus Hawkins’ office to Lloyd’s Bank. We don’t know how much, yet. She was accompanied by a youth, Colin Lomax. They were attacked in Higgitt’s Passage. There were three or four men involved. They sapped the boy: he’s been taken to the hospital. They shoved the girl into their car because she was chained to the handbag. They cleared off with her. They couldn’t unlock either the chain or the bag because they hadn’t time to look for the keys. The boy had them in his pocket.”

  Martineau nodded. It had been more or less as he had supposed. Another car arrived, and plainclothesmen tumbled out of it. They were detectives of the County police, Granchester Division. Their leader, with a cold important frown, spoke to the constable in uniform. Then he saw the City men, and the frown deepened.

  “Martineau,” he said. “What are you doing here?” Martineau was not disposed to be diplomatic about what he considered to be a triviality.

  “I got here first, that’s all,” he said. “I was passing through when I picked up word about the job.”

  “Picked up word from where?”

  “From Granchester—City.”

  “Oh.” Some doubt crept into the County inspector’s frown. “I suppose you would regard it as a City job. But the girl’s body is here, and we don’t know just where she was murdered.”

  The City man could have replied that the violent act ending in murder had started in Granchester, but he refrained. He just nodded and waited. The County man was perplexed, not knowing how to handle him. He had heard things about Martineau.

  “What have you done, so far?” he asked.

  “Nothing, except stop people from trampling all over the place. By the way, there’s a witness. This gentleman here. It occurs to me that one of your men could be taking his statement.”

  The County man nodded. His hostility had vanished. If the question of technical trespass had any importance, which he doubted, it could go in the report and be dealt with elsewhere. The job was the thing. Get on with it. He turned and gave an order, then he said: “Now then, let’s have a look.” Martineau led the way to the body. The County man took a deep breath when he saw the bruised throat and chest. “That’s nice, I must say,” he muttered angrily.

  Then Martineau noticed something. He squatted on his heels and lifted one of the limp hands. There were faint greenish stains on the fingers. He lifted the other hand, and the stains were there too.

  The two inspectors looked at each other, and then Martineau did a strange thing. He spat on the end of his forefinger, and rubbed the spittle on one of the girl’s fingers. The green stain showed up more clearly.

  “By God!” said the County man. “Malachite green?”

  “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” the City inspector replied. “If it is… What a break!”

  2

  The biggest city and county police forces of England—Lancashire, the West Riding, Birmingham, Liverpool, and a few more—hardly ever call upon Scotland Yard to help them solve their major crimes. There was no question of Granchester calling in the Yard. Granchester City Police was a big force and a proud force. The Granchester men had their own forensic scientists and their own murder specialists—of whom Martineau was one—and they were of the opinion that on their own “manor” they could do anything Scotland Yard could do.

  Detective Superintendent Clay took charge of the Granchester end of the Cicely Wainwright case, with Martineau as his right-hand man. Martineau had a comment about that. “All this and Don Starling too,” he said.

  “You can stop thinking Starling is your own personal property,” Clay answered briskly. “He’s everybody’s problem. We don’t even know yet whether he’s within a hundred miles of us.”

  Clay was big, stout and very shrewd. Martineau respected his shrewdness. Still, he contradicted him. “Of course we know,” he said. “He has no contacts anywhere but here.”

  “That we know of,” Clay amended. “If you want to look for Starling you can do it in your spare time, and you’ll have precious little of that. Just now, go and see what Gus Hawkins has to say.”

  So Martineau and Devery went to Gus Hawkins’ office, but on the way they stopped to look at the scene of the crime. Higgitt’s Passage was an alley which connected a quiet street of offices with a busy main street of shops, banks, airline offices, shipping offices, hotels, et cetera. It ran from Gaunt Street to Lacy Street. Gus Hawkins’ office was in Gaunt Street, a mere three minutes’ walk from Lloyd’s Bank in Lacy Street.

  The passage itself was like the shorter bar of a T, the longer bar being the back street between that part of Lacy Street and Gaunt Street. The attack on the boy and girl had occurred at the junction of the two bars of the T.

  Martineau spoke to the detective sergeant who was in charge of inquiries there. “Any developments?” he asked.

  The sergeant pointed to a small plain van which was parked in the back street.

  “That,” he said. “We’ve just found out it’s been stolen. It belongs to a greengrocer out at Highfield. He goes to market with it every morning, then he leaves it behind his shop till shutting-up time. He’s busy serving in the shop. Didn’t even know it had been pinched.”

  “You think it was used on this job?”

  “We’re guessing it was. One or two of ’em could have hid in it, and jumped out at the right moment.”’

  “Where was the Buick?”

  “Right here, as far as we can tell. A woman in one of these back rooms heard a scream. She thinks there was only one scream. She ran to the window and saw the car full of men dashing off along the back street. She said there seemed to be a bit of confusion in the back seat. But she didn’t say anything at all till she was asked. Silly bitch. Lost us nearly twenty minutes.”

  Martineau gazed around. His glance settled on a small, old public house whose windows looked along the back street. It was a secluded place for a pub, and the pub itself was unobtrusive. Its faded
sign bore the words THE PRODIGAL SON FREE HOUSE, and above the door a small board announced that Hannah Savage was licensed to sell ale, porter, wine, spirituous liquor and tobacco. The attack on the boy and girl had taken place right outside the door of the Prodigal Son.

  “Doug Savage’s place,” said Martineau reflectively.

  The sergeant nodded significantly.

  “Of course, it wouldn’t be open at eleven o’clock,” the inspector went on. “Have you talked to Doug?”

  “Aye. And his mother. And the cleaning woman who was there. Like the three wise monkeys, they were. Hear nowt, see nowt, say nowt.”

  Martineau sighed. “Too bad,” he said, and to Devery: “Come on. We’ll go and have a word with Gus.”

  The sole occupant of Gus Hawkins’ office was a middle-aged clerk who was doing his best to cope with four busy telephones. Gus was a strictly legal bookmaker. He employed no runners, and he did no ready-money betting except on the racecourse, where he did a great deal. His connection in the city and on the course was considerable, and his reputation as a bookie was unspotted. On the telephone clients could make bets with him to win thousands of pounds, without a qualm about his ability and willingness to pay.

  The clerk, Peter Purchas, seemed upset; even nervous. The effort and responsibility of running the office alone on a big race day seemed to be too much for him. “I can’t hedge none o’ these bets,” he found time to moan when he saw Martineau. “I’m too busy to balance. Gus’ll have to stand ’em. We might lose a fortune.”

  Martineau remembered that it was St. Leger day. He had intended to back a horse called Empire Honey. Well, it probably wouldn’t win.

  “Where is Gus?” he asked. “Gone to the races?”

  “Aye, he went. But police is going to stop him and turn him back. He should be here any minute.”

  “What time did he set off?”

  “Just afore eleven. Just afore Cicely and the lad started for the bank. And here’s me on me own. I don’t know what to do about these bets.”

  Martineau could not advise him. He lit a cigarette and went to the window, and stood looking down into the street. His presence, and Devery’s, seemed to worry Purchas, who kept shooting glances at him and muttering: “Wish Gus ’ud be quick.”

  Soon after one o’clock Gus arrived. He was followed into the office by Bill Bragg, the ex-wrestler who was his errand lad and “minder.” His clerk, Lomax, father of Colin, had gone on to the hospital to see the injured boy.

  Gus was a short, plump, bespectacled man of guileless appearance. His wit and acumen were not apparent until he opened his mouth. He was a good man, keenly aware but tolerant of the sins of the world: a hard man with a welsher and a soft man with anyone who was really down on his luck.

  Bragg, the man who stood behind him looking over his head, had a face not only expressionless, it was incapable of expression. It was like the front door of a bombed-out house; the front door to nothing. He had a splendid physique run to seed, and a brain which retired in confusion from any problem too difficult for a fairly clever child of eight.

  “Hello, Inspector,” Gus said at once. “What a do! Those poor kids… Poor little Cicely… I shouldn’t have sent ’em with all that money… But, a lot or a little, it makes no difference to a thieving murderer.”

  A telephone rang. Gus stretched his short legs to cross the room. He snatched up the phone, listened a moment, and said: “Sorry, I can’t take any more bets today. One of my staff has died suddenly. Try Benny Solomons; Benny’s all right.”

  As he finished speaking another phone rang. Zealously, Bill Bragg reached it first. “No more betting,” he growled. “Somebody’s dead.” And he banged down the receiver.

  “Bill, get away from that phone!” Gus shouted, and the big man backed off, looking hurt. The bookmaker spoke to Purchas: “No more bets. Leave the receivers off. I can’t take bets with that poor lass lying dead.”

  He turned to the policeman. “Any clues, or anything?” he asked. “Any idea who did it?”

  Martineau shook his head. Then he said: “What’s the matter with your hands?”

  Gus looked at his hands. The fingers and palms were stained bright green.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he said, “I noticed it this morning when I got out of the bath. I suppose I handled that many pound notes at Doncaster yesterday, some of the green ink must have come off on my hands. I’ve never known it happen before, though.” Then his mouth fell open in dismay. “Oh hell! Has somebody been passing me a lot of snide money?”

  Martineau ignored the question. “Did you have a good day?” he asked.

  “A marvelous day. Best in years. I never knew such a turnup for the book. I don’t mind telling you, I made over four thousand quid.”

  “And you sent four thousand to the bank this morning? Most of yesterday’s winnings?”

  “Correct. We celebrated a bit, after the races: Bill here, Stan Lomax and me. We got home late, and I was tired and maybe not just as sober as a driver should be. Anyway, instead of calling at the bank and putting the money in the night safe I dropped Stan and Bill and went straight home. Believe it or not, I left the money in the car and forgot to lock the garage door, and didn’t remember it till this morning. I deserved to have the whole lot pinched. I wish it had been pinched, then those kids ’ud be all right now. Poor little Cicely! I wouldn’t have had this happen for forty thousand, never mind four.”

  “Who counted the money this morning, before it was sent to the bank?” Martineau asked.

  Gus looked slightly surprised. “Oh, there was four thousand all right,” he said. “I counted it first, then Cicely counted it and put it in the bank bag. Then I set off to Doncaster, leaving her to see that it got to the bank.”

  “And you’re sure it was money you got at the races? I want a serious answer, Gus. It’s important.”

  “Every cent that went to the bank was won at the races. It came out of my bag all scrumpled up anyhow, just as I’d stuffed it in. My own money was still in bundles. I’d never had to use any of it, see? I set off to Doncaster with it today, and brought it back.”

  “And it’s Saturday. The banks closed at noon.”

  “It’ll go in the night safe. I’m sending Bill and old Purchas with it right away.”

  Martineau reflected that everybody called Purchas “old,” though he was only in his middle forties. Probably it was because of the man’s sunken, characterless face and his tendency to worry about broken routine.

  “How was the stolen money made up?” he asked.

  “Three thousand ones and two hundred fivers,” Gus replied promptly. “And I hope it chokes ’em.”

  “Maybe it will,” said Martineau.

  “What a mess it all is,” the bookmaker said. “Poor Cicely! Have her parents been told?”

  The inspector nodded.

  “I suppose I’d better go and see ’em,” said Gus. “I don’t know how I’ll face ’em.”

  3

  From a public telephone in Gaunt Street Martineau contacted the C.I.D. office and spoke to Superintendent Clay.

  “I’ve seen Gus Hawkins,” he said, “and his fingers are bright green. I think we’ve really got something there. Gus counted the money this morning, before the girl did. It was all cash he got at the races yesterday.”

  “Good,” said Clay. “I’ve got something too. I sent out an Express Message and I’ve got a reply already, from Hallam City. Hallam are very interested. They’re interested to the extent of two hundred pounds.”

  “Not all in dusted notes, surely,” said Martineau.

  “Yes. Two hundred one-pound notes, all dusted. That shakes you, doesn’t it?”

  Martineau listened carefully to the story. When Granchester City wanted to know if any officer in any force had recently been dusting one-pound notes with malachite green, the Hallam police answered immediately. When they learned how serious was the Granchester case, their sharply inquiring tone changed, and they were ready wi
th information. Their use of malachite green had ended a series of larcenies from the Hallam City Treasurer’s department. Some sly person had been pilfering, in amounts rising from £2 to £10, from stacked money in the main collector’s office.

  The thief was clever, or lucky. He was never seen taking the money, nor did he leave fingerprints. He was fortunate in avoiding traps until an angry and determined detective took a camel’s hair brush and a quantity of powdered malachite green, and painstakingly brushed the dry dye onto all the notes in two bundles of one hundred pounds. Until they could be carefully distributed as bait, the two hundred dusted notes were put in a safe place in a cashier’s office, but the place was not safe enough. The thief—an elderly, unsuspected janitor—came upon the money while the cashier was out of the room for a moment, and in an access of greed he pocketed the lot. He immediately left the premises, telling a doorman that he was going home because he was ill. But he did not go home.

  That was on Friday, the day before Cicely Wainwright was murdered. The police were waiting for the janitor when he returned home, morosely inebriated, late on Friday night. He had none of the stolen money in his possession, but the police knew that he was their man. He was betrayed by his green fingers. Without moisture the dye known as malachite green would not stain, but perspiration caused it to color the fingers faintly but indelibly. Washing the hands in water made the stain much brighter. The janitor had been washing his hands, and to the expectant policemen they fairly shouted “Thief!”

  Under pressure, the janitor said that he had taken the marked money to Doncaster, and lost it all at the races. The police were not inclined to believe him. They suspected that he had got drunk with a little of it, and “sided” the rest.

  “Well well!” said Martineau, when he had heard the story. “Aren’t we lucky?”

  “It seems so,” Clay agreed. “But we’d better get weaving, before that dye starts to fade.”